I wrote this in my 13th story Parisian apartment, one year ago to the very hour that I am writing this now. For some reason I didn't post it then but there was no reason not to. So I am posting it now.
9: pm. (July 24)
I said that I wished I could see you again.
Turns out that was grandeur and panic, and that’s not what I really wanted, no, not really.
You realize that you’re not always going to have this view,
Metal on your chin and a breeze,
Mr. Porter and the table in the art room.
There’s a little pigeon drinking water from a puddle down beneath,
And of course it’s these things that you are always going to remember.
How many pieces has my brain forgotten
Because I filled the space behind my eyes with static and tried not to sleep?
I say that I’ll change, and yet every night
I go to bed hungry and wake up feeling hollow.
The taste of that apricot and pistachio tarte came back to me all of a sudden.
I’ve only ever seen the clouds as dragons in the sky,
But everyone’s face in Iceland looks the same, and that hurts for some reason.
The air like this makes me think of summer nights in Colorado.
And sometimes when I’m standing at the edge of a window, I have the urge to jump.